


Try

by grassmoons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Sherlock, First Time, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Pre-Reichenbach, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-08
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/959851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassmoons/pseuds/grassmoons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock.” No response.  “SHERLOCK.”  Sherlock’s eyes opened and fixed their gaze upon John.  “Explain yourself.  You just wrecked all my possessions and walked out like everything is dandy.”</p><p>            At first he remained silent as he stared at John.  He had the same look as when he watched John eat his breakfast or read a book or fold the wash, only now John stared back instead of pretending not to notice.  Behind Sherlock’s eyes was an intense, burning curiosity, and hidden deep in the recesses of his mind, what looked like a desire.  It was like John was an aquarium and Sherlock was separated by glass and water and this new world terrified him.</p><p>When he finally spoke, his voice was firm and unwavering, as if it caused him great effort to say each word.  “Why do you put up with me?”  Sherlock didn’t avert his gaze, but the light behind his eyes changed when he finished speaking.  Usually quite dark, he now seemed innocent and pure, like a child.  Like a scared little boy watching the sharks swim past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Try

_Home soon? – SH_

_Yeah, I’m just leaving now.  Need me to stop at the store or anything?  Tell me now before I get a cab. – JW_

            John waited a few minutes, staring at his phone and wondering if Sherlock would even bother respondng to his question.  _Fuck it_ , he thought as he stuffed the phone into his pocket and left the clinic with his jacket slung over his arm.

            The cab ride home was tedious: rush hour traffic and every street was at a complete standstill.  John hadn’t been sleeping well; this, coupled with the glacial movement of cars made him clench his jaw with anxiety.  Something had changed between him and his flatmate over the past few days.  He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Sherlock was acting… abnormal.  He watched John eat his breakfast, his eyes firmly fixed on John’s face.  John knew Sherlock frequently went through John’s things, but recently he could smell cigarettes and coffee on his jumpers, almost as if Sherlock wore them while John was at work.  It wasn’t that this new attention bothered John, in fact he found himself enjoying the thought of it.  It was flattering but also… it was something else that John couldn’t figure out.  _Endearing?_   John laughed quietly to himself.  _Sherlock Holmes is anything but endearing._

            He walked into 221B Baker Street, hung up his coat, and climbed the stairs to the sitting room.  He expected to see Sherlock sitting at the dining room table, engrossed in something on his computer screen, or in the kitchen, mixing highly toxic substances together right next to the breadbox.

            “Sherlock?”  No reply.  _He’s probably been called out and didn’t bother to tell me._  He moved towards his bedroom.  
            A gasp escaped him as he entered.  Papers, clothes, furniture were strewn everywhere.  His bed, formerly made in typical military fashion, was dismembered, with feathers popping out of his pillows and tears in his cotton sheets.  Bullet holes that matched the ones in the wall of the sitting room now peppered his bedroom walls.   In the corner stood Sherlock, silently pulling pages out of a book, one by one.  John stood, stunned into silence.

            “Ah, you’re home.” Sherlock seemed neither startled nor guilty.  He half-glanced in John’s direction before turning his attention back to the book he was dissecting.  
            “What… What the hell, Sherlock??” screamed John.  Sherlock looked up, clearly fascinated by his reaction.  “What would you… what were you… why did you destroy my room??”  Sherlock continued staring, intrigued by John, and said nothing.  “Sherlock, WHY DID YOU DO THIS??”

            “An experiment.”  His eyes glittered maliciously, and a conniving grin appeared on his pale face.

            “No.  No, no, no, no,” said John felt his face grow hot and red as he closed the distance between them.  “This is not an experiment; you can’t just mess up my room and call it an experiment!  I swear, I have half a mind to-“

            “To what?” Sherlock interrupted him, suddenly nervous.  _No¸_ thought John, _not nervous… Excited_.

            “I don’t know.” John sighed and sat down on his mangled bed, head in his hands.

            “Ah.  I see.  Well, I’ll go run this data.  See you at supper.”  Sherlock walked out of the room.  John stood up, once again furious.

            “No, hang on, run what data?  Sherlock, what the hell are you trying piece together here?  Why am I suddenly a… a case?” said John, following Sherlock to the sitting room.

            “John, everything is a case!  You are currently the most fascinating.  The evidence you present is… disconcerting.”  Sherlock squatted in his arm chair, elbows on his knees, hands steepled beneath his chin, eyes closed like some sort of giant, sleeping bird.

            “Sherlock.” No response.  “SHERLOCK.”  Sherlock’s eyes opened and fixed their gaze upon John.  “Explain yourself.  You just wrecked all my possessions and walked out like everything is dandy.”

            At first he remained silent as he stared at John.  He had the same look as when he watched John eat his breakfast or read a book or fold the wash, only now John stared back instead of pretending not to notice.  Behind Sherlock’s eyes was an intense, burning curiosity, and hidden deep in the recesses of his mind, what looked like a desire.  It was like John was an aquarium and Sherlock was separated by glass and water and stood slightly desirous of this new world in front of him.

When he finally spoke, his voice was firm and unwavering, as if it caused him great effort to say each word.  “Why do you put up with me?”  Sherlock didn’t avert his gaze, but the light behind his eyes changed when he finished speaking.  Usually quite dark, he now seemed innocent and pure, like a child.  _Like a scared little boy watching the sharks swim past._

            “I… Jesus, I don’t know,” said John, taken aback.  He sat across from Sherlock on the ottoman, keeping their eyes locked.  A sense of sympathy for his flatmate rushed through him and he felt a sudden urge to throw his arms around Sherlock’s neck and tell him that everything was okay, that he wasn’t angry, that he knew how hard things could be for him.  That he would do anything for Sherlock, and would put up with anything, because he had made a decision a long time ago to follow Sherlock anywhere.  Sherlock continued staring at John, clearly waiting for a more elaborate answer, perhaps even seeing it written across John’s face.  _I put up with you because I love you_.  “I just do, Sherlock.  I can’t say why, but you’ve never done anything that’s… I don’t know.”

            “I see,” Sherlock said, rising to his feet.  John rose as well, intending to follow him if he left the room.   Sherlock paused, studying John, then promptly punched him square across the jaw.  He hit hard, and John could almost immediately taste blood in his mouth as he fell over onto the floor.  Unable to speak or move for a moment he merely lay on the floor, rubbing his jaw and groaning.  “John, get up and fight me.”

            The part John that had saved his life in Afghanistan, the part that fought for his life and for the lives of his brothers overtook him.  He leapt to his feet and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his shirt with his left hand and forced him back into his chair with his forearm.  Without loosening the grip on his shirt, he raised his fist into the air and paused.

            “HIT ME!  Do it!  You’re a bloody soldier, you’ve hit people before, do it, John!”  Sherlock screamed at him.  His eyes once again glittered with fascination and terror.  John slowly lowered his fist, shaking and wiping blood off his cheek.

            “No,” said John quietly, letting go of Sherlock’s shirt.  “No, I won’t hit you.”

            “Why not?” Sherlock spat at him.  “You’d hit anyone else if they punched you like that.  You’ve shot people, blown people up, but you won’t hit me.  I destroyed your room, I scare off your dates, I insult you personally, I’ve just bloody punched you in the face!  Why won’t you hit me, John?”  He shoved John’s arm off his chest and pushed him roughly away.

            “Because…. Because you’re different!” John said, his anger rising once more.  “Because you’re you and I just can’t do it!  Fuck it, why do I let you torture me?”  He realized the wetness on his face was more than just the blood.  He turned away, hoping Sherlock hadn’t noticed the tears now flowing freely down his face.  He took a deep breath, willing himself to be calm.  “Don’t you understand, Sherlock?  Can’t you see?  You understand everything and everyone, you must know what’s going on.”

            “No, John!  I can’t understand!  I want to, I’m trying so hard… but I can’t.  I just can’t.”  John had never heard Sherlock say he couldn’t do anything.

            John turned back around.  He could tell instantly from the look on Sherlock’s face that he had never felt more exposed to anyone.  His lips trembled and clenched; his dark eyes glistened softly in the lamplight.  He ran a hand nervously through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck.  He looked so human, so soft, that it took every ounce of strength John had to not embrace him.  _This is what it feels like to see a man who is lost.  This is what I must have looked like when we met._

            John motioned for Sherlock to sit.  He didn’t move.  They stood in each other’s silent stares for a moment before John broke the silence.  “Do you know what it’s like when one person, just one person, seems like the most extraordinary person in the world?  It doesn’t matter if they’re perfectly ordinary or completely extraordinary, they just have a special force that pulls you inexplicably closer every day.  They’re the only person who tries to understand your soul, and you don’t have to worry about explaining yourself to.  Someone who’s actually worth the time and energy it takes to connect with another person, except it doesn’t take any time your energy, and you love every moment of it.  That’s you, Sherlock.  You’re that one, singular, solitary person in my life.  You’re that one person who I would do anything to save and protect from the world.  Which is why I can’t hit you or scream at you or hate you or ever, ever leave you.  And it’s why I can’t stand you messing with me.  I don’t know if you are even capable of understanding these feelings, but if you are, I need some sort of sign that you feel them in return.”

            Sherlock remained silent for a moment.  John could see his brain working, computing behind his eyes.  “Love,” said Sherlock finally, “you’re talking about love.”

            John nodded, resisting the urge to look away.  “Yeah, I suppose I am, in a way.”

            “You love me.”  It wasn’t a question, but a statement.  “I never… I have never observed love having those characteristics, but I suppose… yes.  You, John Watson, love me.”  Sherlock paused, finally breaking eye contact with John and turning away.  “Good.”

            John’s heart skipped a beat. _What does he mean “good”?_  He couldn’t manage to form a sentence, all he said was “What?”

            Sherlock faced John once more.  “Going by your paradigms, you, John Watson have features that present you to be, at this given moment, the most extraordinary person in _my_  world, given that you haven’t left me throughout my tests and are willing to at least tolerate me for me, both the beautiful things about me and the more prevalent ugly.  And I can feel you, John, trying your best to explore my mind and (your words) soul, and whether or not you are successful, I admire you for trying so much more patiently than most.  Clearly you’re worth my time and energy, or I wouldn’t have spent all afternoon destroying your room.  Which, I did by the way, in an attempt to see whether or not my ‘need’ for you was reciprocated.  Apparently it is.”  He said all this so quickly, John almost missed it.

            “So... You love me.”

            “I’ve never been able to or wanted to define love, but if that’s what it is, then yes, John, I… Love you.”   John could tell Sherlock was anticipating John’s next words, running through all the possible scenarios in his head.  A small smile formed on John’s face.  He said nothing at first, allowing Sherlock to study his reaction.  He then took two steps closer, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock roughly by the back of his neck and closing the gap between them until they were almost nose to nose.  Sherlock gasped, immediately tensing under John’s grasp.

            “They why do you like to hurt me?”  John breathed onto Sherlock’s lips where his eyes were now locked.  Sherlock’s mouth was slightly parted and he quickly ran a nervous tongue over his lips.

            “Because,” Sherlock whispered back, “you make me feel vulnerable,” he swallowed nervously, “and I don’t know how to be vulnerable.”  Sherlock’s breathing was labored and shaky, and felt warm on John’s lips.  Unlike the rest of Sherlock, which smelled smoky and deep like his cigarettes and coffee, his breath was sweet and fresh, like a peppermint.

“No matter how hard you try, Sherlock, I’m not going anywhere,” John said, even quieter than before, ghosting his lips along Sherlock’s.  “You have too much power over me.”

            Sherlock inhaled sharply, either in response to John’s words or the contact between their lips.  John pulled Sherlock’s lips roughly against his.  They were soft and dry and fuller than he had anticipated.  Sherlock quickly matched John’s urgency, cupping his hands around John’s face and neck.  John pushed his tongue in between Sherlock’s lips and ran it around their outside edges.  Sherlock released a quiet yet satisfied moan into John’s open mouth.   Out of curiosity, he bit down on Sherlock’s lower lip.  Sherlock’s gasp prompted John to bite harder.  While his trepidation implied he had far less sexual experience than John, he was a quick study as his hands explored John’s body.  Sherlock’s finally rested on the back of John’s head; his other arm found John’s waist and pulled their bodies together.  John paused as he released Sherlock and pushed him away until their eyes could meet.  Sherlock attempted to follow John’s mouth, eyes still closed, but as John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, they fluttered open.

            “Sherlock,” he said, his voice hoarse.  “Sherlock, once we start, we can’t…”  He paused.  He said nothing as he stared deep into John’s eyes, willing him to see what his words couldn’t express.  John knew there was no going back.  He pushed Sherlock into his arm chair and straddled him, finding his lips once more as his hands went to work unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt.  Sherlock reciprocated, quickly unfastening the buttons before John was even halfway done with Sherlock’s.  He roughly ripped off the remainder of Sherlock’s shirt, causing buttons to fly across the room.  They mutually removed them, never breaking away from their passionate kissing.

            Suddenly, a flash of realization shot through John’s mind.  _I’m about to have sex with a man.  No, not just any man, I’m about to have sex with Sherlock._   He paused, Sherlock passionately sucking his lip into his mouth.  He pulled his lip away and leaned over to Sherlock’s ear.  “Sherlock,” he whispered, as tenderly as he could, so as to not frighten with his bluntness. “Are we… about to have sex with each other?”

            Sherlock froze.  John had suspected Sherlock had never had sex before and therefore had no idea what to expect if he were to answer yes.  John himself had never slept with a man and wouldn’t be able to tell Sherlock what to expect even if he asked. _Idiot, this isn’t just a man, this is Sherlock.  Your Sherlock_.  A wave of excitement rushed through him at the thought.  His Sherlock.

            “Can we?”  Sherlock had never asked John’s permission on anything before.

            “Yes, Sherlock, oh god yes.”  His last words, already mostly a moan, were muffled by Sherlock’s lips as he pulled them back together.  The fear and uncertainty each had had in the back of their minds was now gone.  Sherlock’s hair was tangled in John’s hands and they explored each other’s mouths, their likes and sweet spots.  Sherlock’s arms, much longer than John’s, were wrapped around John’s waist and his hands reached up gripped John’s shoulders.

Suddenly, Sherlock began slowly thrusting his hips upwards as he simultaneously pulled John down.  John gasped, their erections meeting and causing friction under their trousers.  He tore his mouth away from Sherlock and watched Sherlock’s hips rhythmically moving against his.  He could see the bulges in both their trousers growing as Sherlock applied even more pressure to John’s shoulders, pressing them together with each thrust.  The sight of it was intensely erotic, and John realized how much he wanted to pleasure Sherlock, to feel him in his mouth, to taste him.

He pulled away from Sherlock and put his feet back on the ground, moving his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders to keep him in place.  Slowly, he began tracing a series of kisses and nips down Sherlock's neck and chest until he reached his left nipple.  A lick caused Sherlock’s breathing to become more rapid and shallow; a light bite made him arch his back and groan John’s name.  Without moving his mouth from Sherlock’s nipple, he began unfastening Sherlock’s pants and pulling his trousers and shorts down around his ankles.  For the first time, he drew back and examined Sherlock’s cock.  Longer and thinner than John’s, it was erect with a drop of precum glistening on the head.

John dropped to his knees at Sherlock’s feet.  If he had looked up at Sherlock, he would’ve seen how focused he was on each of John’s slightest movements.  Instead, John watched Sherlock’s erection, a wave of nervousness rushing through him.  He quickly tried to remember the best blow jobs he’d ever experienced and hesitantly began by lightly licking his tip.  Sherlock inhaled deeply and fought the urge to close his eyes; he wanted to give John his undivided attention.  John then closed his mouth over the head while swirling his tongue in and out of his folds.  This was almost too much for Sherlock, and he gasped out, “John, more, I need more,” as he instinctively tried to thrust into John’s mouth.  John caught his hips in his hands and pushed Sherlock back down.

“Not now, Sherlock.  Have a bit of patience.”  With these words he did meet Sherlock’s eyes and couldn’t help but smile as he saw the look of desperation on Sherlock’s face.  He returned his attention to Sherlock’s erection and repeated the same process.  A light lick, pause, lips around the head, swirl, and back out.  He did this three times before finally he took as much as he could into his mouth.

“Oh fuck!” cried Sherlock as John’s hot mouth enveloped him.  It was too much for John and he felt himself gagging on Sherlock.  Quickly he pulled back, fighting his reflexes.  When his fit had subsided, he took a deep breath and prepared himself to try again.  _Relax, John.  Let him go back, it won’t hurt you._   He took it again, slower, and this time ignored his gag reflex as he relaxed his throat and allowed all of Sherlock’s cock to penetrate his mouth.  He held it there for a second before pulling back and repeating the gesture.

Sherlock’s hands found their way to John’s hair as he began fucking John’s mouth.  He quickly took control of the speed and depth that John took him.  John’s own erection pulsed painfully in his trousers; it was undeniable that Sherlock liked the same rough blow jobs John liked, and the idea of giving Sherlock that pleasure was immensely erotic.  Sherlock’s breathing became more rapid and John knew he was close to the brink.   Quickly he pulled his mouth off and drew away.  Sherlock let out a frustrated and disappointed moan.

            “What the hell, John?” he gasped, reaching for himself.  John grabbed his hands, pulling them away.

            “You said we could have sex.  I have every intention of making love to you before we’re finished.  Now, are you going to help me get these bloody trousers off?”  John’s voice was low and husky from the rough blow job.  Sherlock immediately began unfastening John’s belt and hastily pulled his trousers and pants off his legs.  He stared at John’s erection, clearly fascinated by the sight of it.

John drew Sherlock’s face upwards and planted a deep, sensual, and loving kiss on his mouth before turning him around.  Sherlock was now kneeling on his arm chair, his elbows propped up on the back rest, his back to John.  John spat into his hand, messily coating his fingers in saliva.  He stood behind Sherlock and leaned over to whisper in his year.  “Can I go inside you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock was biting down on the top of the arm chair, clearly dying of anticipation.  “Oh god damn it John, enough with the pleasantries, just do it all ready!”

John smirked as he placed on finger on Sherlock’s entrance.  He slowly traced circles around it as Sherlock’s breathing once more became ragged and shallow.  Reaching his left hand around to Sherlock’s front, he wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s cock and in one swift motion, slowly stroked his erection as he slipped a finger inside him.

“Fuck, JOHN!” Sherlock cried as John found his prostate.  John paused, not wanting to let Sherlock finished before he’d even begun.  Once Sherlock’s breathing became more consistent, he began slowing thrusting his finger in and out of Sherlock’s ass.  After a minute, he added another, repeating the same motion.  As Sherlock began leaning into the thrusts of his fingers, John stopped, stepping away from Sherlock.  A frustrated moan escaped Sherlock’s mouth, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“You’re  so beautiful,” said John, his voice cracking.  “You’re so beautiful and I can’t believe you’re here.”   Sherlock turned around, his face soft and gentle.

“Get your lube.”

John retrieved it from the uppermost drawer of his nightstand, hurredly coating himself as he ran back into the sitting room.  He placed himself at Sherlock’s entrance, breathing deeply.  “Are you sure we can do this?”  Sherlock only nodded in response, shaking slightly.  John slowly began to push.  Sherlock moaned from deep within as John began to stretch him. 

“John, it hurts.”  John froze, concerned it was too much for him.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No, god no.  Just an observation.  You’re hurting me, John.”  Sherlock smirked.  “I like it.”

With that, John could bare it no longer.  He thrust roughly into Sherlock, hitting his sweet spot and causing him to cry out in pain or pleasure or both.  He reached his hand around to find Sherlock’s cock and began stroking it, still buried inside him.  He withdrew and pounded into Sherlock again, this time eliciting cries of his name.  Without pause, he repeated this, fucking Sherlock again and again, increasing his speed as he stroked Sherlock’s cock.

“John, fuck John, it’s going to happen, I’m going to, oh god JOHN!”  Sherlock screamed as he came, hard and long onto his arm chair.  The feeling of hot cum over his fingers mixed with the way Sherlock said his name was too much for John to bare, and with one final, deep thrust, he came inside Sherlock.

John fell forward, exhausted, onto Sherlock’s sweaty back. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”


End file.
